A Mostly Excellent Adventure
by Oroburos69
Summary: In which our anti-heroes are guided by the power of boredom and pie.
1. Chapter 1

The Mostly Excellent Adventures of A-Man and J-Dog

In Which Our Anti-Heroes Are Guided By The Power Of Boredom

The characters here do not belong to me. They either belong to Wizards of the Coast or R.A. Salvatore. I am unsure as to which.

* * *

As he stood over the corpses of fifteen werewolves (the third pack this week) and watched Jarlaxle poke the half dead leader with a stick, Artemis Entreri wondered if perhaps Jarlaxle was bored.

Four hours later, when he found himself suggesting that they investigate the rumours of a black dragon in the nearby swamp, it occurred to him that he, too, might be bored. Entreri found the notion vaguely unsettling, but as he had never been a man particularly good at introspection, or, indeed, emotions, the thought quickly faded away.

* * *

Two weeks later, the feeling returned, stronger than before. It was really quite uncomfortably deep. Entreri generally tried to avoid feelings that went deep, as those rarely worked out well for him.

"I'm bored," he said, and then blinked in surprise. He had not intended to speak.

Jarlaxle looked up from his perch on a pile of gold and dropped another dozen gems into his bottomless bag (his fifth one in the last two years—bottomless just wasn't as bottomless as it used to be). He picked up a fist sized ruby and dumped it into the bag with barely a glance. The niggling feeling of wrongness grew and echoed in Entreri. Such a gem should have inspired feelings of rapturous giddiness in the glitter-happy drow, not this empty boredom.

"Do you want to help me sort?" Jarlaxle asked in confusion. "I thought we agreed you should stay away from the treasure until it's time to pack the gold."

Entreri scowled in displeasure. You accidentally throw one portal gem into a bottomless bag and you never hear the end of it. "No," he responded. He sprawled back and looked up. The light of the single torch and the patch of luminous mushrooms didn't reach the cavernous ceiling.

"What do you want then?" Jarlaxle asked, shoving an arm shoulder deep into the pile and pulling out a golden crown studded with diamonds and rubies. He gave it an absent-minded glance and tossed it into his bag.

Entreri sighed heavily and wondered what he wanted. "I want…" he let his head loll to the left and look down at Jarlaxle. "…something exciting to happen."

"This wasn't exciting enough for you?" Jarlaxle asked. Entreri noted the Jarlaxle didn't sound that surprised.

Entreri shrugged and rolled off the black dragon's back, sliding down twenty feet into another pile of gold. He dropped his pack on the ground and opened it wide, then pulled out his shovel. "You are done with this stack?" He pointed at the six foot pile of gold in front him.

Jarlaxle nodded, packing an eight-foot broadsword into his bag. "Should be good," he told Artemis, adding a bent coronet, "Though do be careful. That bag was expensive."

Entreri set the bag in front of the pile and rolled down the edges, leaving it looking like a fathomless black pit surrounded by dusty leather. Then he moved to the other side of the pile and started climbing. The gold made a metallic slithering sound as it slid and scattered in his wake.

Halfway up he stopped and started pushing. The coins and occasional small gem made a remarkably sparkly waterfall as they slid into the bottomless pack. With only one torch it wasn't nearly as impressive as it had been in the red dragon's lair three years back. There had been a partial cave-in. The sun shining off the gold had been spectacular. After Jarlaxle got over his panic attack at the cave-in, he'd gone and rolled in it. Entreri sighed. Good times, good times. Jarlaxle screamed like a little girl when he was scared.

The pile was down to its last foot or so. A significant portion of it had scattered rather than gone in the bag, but it didn't really matter. That was why they had the shovel.

"Oh, are you ready to start shovelling?" Jarlaxle asked Entreri. "I still have lots more to do, but I assure you, I'll aid you as soon as I am done." He smiled down at Entreri from his perch on a sparkling pile of silver and gold.

"Bastard," Entreri muttered, before beginning the long process of scraping the floor clean of anything valuable. _Fucking gold was heavy. And gods forbid he miss a single coin, or Jarlaxle would bitch so loud you'd think he'd gone and accidentally destroyed another of his ridiculously gaudy hats._ Entreri smirked vengefully_. Come to think of it, the most recent abomination is getting a little old, now isn't it?_ He had to kill them off quick, lest they breed. He glanced up and scowled. It was such a hideous shade of orange. He was certain it was revenge for the incident with the ogre harem where the last hat had met its untimely demise. Jarlaxle hadn't tried to scavenge anything from that one.

* * *

The torch had dwindled down to a shadow of its former self and begun sputtering uncertainly by the time Jarlaxle had finished sorting the magical items from the gold. He yawned and slid down the side of the final pile. The rush of coins and non-magical trinkets slid down behind him, several landing on the wide brim of his hat where they slowly slid down to the tip and fell into his lap, much like remarkably heavy rain. He leaned back against the gold and took a moment to watch Artemis. The man had made his way though five of the coin hills. _He only has…_ Jarlaxle glanced around… _about twenty more to do_. Jarlaxle pouted unhappily. He should have procrastinated more. But there truly hadn't been that many magical items in this particular dragon's horde.

"You are done," Entreri said, as jovially as he was capable (which wasn't very. Jarlaxle only recognized the slight raise of voice and the subtle twist of lips as jovial through his long years of Entreri watching). "You can help."

Jarlaxle stared at the shovel hovering blade first in front of his throat. So rude this man was! "I was thinking, my dear friend, that perhaps we should take a break," Jarlaxle swallowed and tried to continue, but the shovel was pressing quite firmly on his throat now and speaking had become somehow harder. "Or perhaps not?" he managed to rasp out, mostly by burrowing into the stack of gold behind him.

Artemis' expression didn't exactly change, but Jarlaxle was able to tell that the anger (though it wasn't particularly strong anger. Jarlaxle didn't even have to draw a blade this time!) had dissipated through several subtle signs, such as the relaxing of Artemis' right eyebrow, the twitch in his eye disappearing, but most especially the way the shovel was no longer trying to have an intimate meeting with his spine.

Jarlaxle sighed. The gold was ever so lovely, but it was also so darned _heavy_.

* * *

The fire flickered, casting distorted shadows across the uneven floor. It occasionally glinted on stray coins, the sad remains of a once great treasure. The rest was securely packed away. By tomorrow, even those lonely survivors would be in one of the bags.

"What should we do next?" Entreri asked, idly stirring their dinner. Dragon stew. If you didn't use the right parts it tended to eat straight through the pot, but the heart was usually okay. And a single heart could last you a good ten days if you preserved it right.

"Add the potatoes?" Jarlaxle asked slowly, looking up from where he was peeling the aforementioned vegetables.

"I was thinking in a wider sense, such as should we head back to town or should we see if there's anything else to kill in the general area." The pot began to boil. "But yes, it is time to throw in the potatoes. Remember to chop them up small and even this time. Last time some of the chunks were still hard in the middle."

"Whiner. It wasn't that bad. Not like that stew you made out of your horse," Jarlaxle retorted, the words of an old argument coming to him automatically. "And I have no preference. You decide."

"I don't care either." Entreri reached back and pulled a silver coin out of his pack. "Heads is city; tails is go kill something else." He tossed the coin across the fire to Jarlaxle.

Jarlaxle caught it in the crook of his arm, his hands being full of potatoes and knives. He shook it to the floor and looked down. "Heads."

"City it is."

"Which one do you think?" Jarlaxle asked, leaning forward to dump his potatoes.

"Where's the coin from?" Entreri responded. He folded the potatoes into the stew. It was a bit thick, but dragon stew was best that way. Dragon gravy wasn't anything to write home about.

"Silverymoon," Jarlaxle looked up from tossing the potato skins in the fire. "We've never been there," he observed.

"The north has never taken kindly to drow," Entreri said, prodding an unidentifiable lump with his spoon.

"Only because they've never met me," Jarlaxle stretched out, posing heroically for a moment.

"I can't help but to envy them," Entreri muttered, glaring at Jarlaxle's hat.

"You don't mean that!" Jarlaxle said cheerfully. "Do you?" he said, faking worry.

Entreri glared at the greyish stew and avoided looking at Jarlaxle. "Do you think we should add onions?" he asked, changing the subject. He'd been down this road often enough to know that he'd lose if he didn't.

"Artemis?" Jarlaxle leaned forward and took his hat off. He gave the assassin a sorrowful look. "You don't really dislike me… do you?" He was especially proud of the subtle tremor in his voice.

Entreri scowled and growled, "Onions?" If he could just distract him long enough the subject would be dropped.

"Artemis?" Jarlaxle tossed the rest of the potato skins into the fire, making it pop and crackle, sputtering as the moisture in the skins turned to steam. Entreri looked up, sealing his fate. Jarlaxle gazed at him with earnest crimson eyes.

"No," he grumbled. Stupid drow. He waited, but Jarlaxle didn't look away. "No I don't really dislike you," Entreri muttered grudgingly. The edges of his cheekbones flushed faintly red.

"See? Was that so hard?" Jarlaxle asked, putting his hat back on. He smiled in satisfaction.

"Onions?" Entreri asked, determined to change the subject as soon as possible.

"Only if you let me add mushrooms."

"Hell no."

Jarlaxle frowned. He wanted mushrooms; Entreri hadn't let him add them for weeks. That human was surprisingly unforgiving of hallucinogenic mushrooms being added to soup. Jarlaxle couldn't imagine why, he had found the fluorescent unicorns quite helpful. "What if I let you add your dried peppers too?" he asked.

Entreri paused, severely tempted. Jarlaxle disliked the spicy peppers immensely and usually manufactured accidents for them before they could make it to the stew pot. "Will you leave the mushrooms whole?"

"If you chop the onions large enough that I can avoid them," Jarlaxle bartered back.

"Deal," Entreri nodded, accepting the terms.

* * *

The cavern was empty, featureless and rather bland, excluding the hundred foot long dragon's corpse. The last of the gold had been gathered, the few straggling gemstones collected. Even the glowing mushrooms were collected, as Jarlaxle quite liked them with sausage.

Jarlaxle gazed thoughtfully at the dragon's body. Even with a large hole cut into its side and sections of it almost completely gone, its hide was untouched in some parts. "You know," he said, "That hide would make some nice arm chairs." Of course they'd have to use the softer belly skin, which might be difficult given that the dragon was laying on it. "Maybe a rug, too," he mused.

Entreri looked back over at Jarlaxle and wondered (not for the first time) what was wrong with him. "Jarlaxle," he began, speaking slowly, as if to a particularly stupid child, "We do not have a house. Why would we need chairs? Or a rug for that matter?"

"We might have a house someday," Jarlaxle defended his idea. "You have to admit that they would be fantastic chairs."

"No, they wouldn't," Entreri argued back. "All of the scales have spiked ridges in the centre. You'd be stabbed every time you sat down. And that hide is not soft enough for a rug." He paused and considered briefly, "And do you really want skin a dragon? That thing is huge."

"I suppose you are right," Jarlaxle sighed, disappointed. He recognised the tone in Artemis' voice. It was the one he always heard right around the time he lost another hat to the hand of fate. One hundred years in the underdark wearing hats, he never lost a single one. Ten years on the surface and they'd suffered mysterious and massively disfiguring injuries or simply disappeared almost annually. He cast an amused glance at Artemis. One could fear a conspiracy.

Entreri looked at the beast's head, still etched with a fierce snarl. "We could always take its horns. Make a table out of them, if you truly feel so furniture inclined," he offered. Horns weren't too difficult to detach.

Jarlaxle frowned. "It would be a very pointy table."

"No, we'd use the horns as legs and put something else on top as a table top," Entreri explained, looking at the drow in amusement.

"Ah." Jarlaxle accepted the explanation. "I guess that would work." _Probably easier than skinning the dragon_, he thought to himself.

Entreri carefully climbed up to the top of the dragon's head, avoiding the many spikes and ridges on the hide. He settled on a flat point between the twelve foot long horns. They were actually slightly longer than the dragon's head, and had hampered its bite in combat. Mind, the horns were sharp, but they'd been a lot easier to avoid than a mouth full of teeth.

Entreri drew Charon's Claw and started to saw at the base of the horn where thick bony plates lengthened into massive horns. Weapons enchanted to slice through anything were wonderful tools. He twitched slightly at the humming buzz of pleasure he felt from the blade at his appreciation. The sentience was simply an unfortunate side effect.

The horn fell to the ground, bounced and rolled. It was light, and the top where the horn met the skull had cut open to reveal a purple-grey honeycombed center surrounded by a dense five inch layer of bone.

"Perhaps we could have it dipped in gold?" Jarlaxle asked hopefully.

Entreri wiped the sweat from his brow. His sword might be enchanted to cut through anything, but that didn't mean the slicing would be easy. "It's not shiny enough for you?" he asked, starting on the other horn.

"Well, it's not exactly a thing of beauty," Jarlaxle pointed out. "And I was thinking that a table made of gold-dipped dragon horns would be an interesting thing to have." Jarlaxle liked having interesting things. He liked having things, but interesting things were ever so much better.

"Jarlaxle, that would be ostentatious. Besides, if we dipped them in gold their veracity could be doubted," Entreri countered, hoping that the drow would drop the idea. "We could commission someone to do some scrollwork or embellish them a bit, if they are too plain for you," he added absently. Truthfully, he felt they were good enough the way they were. Of course, he doubted that they'd ever actually make a table out of them, so he didn't care too much.

"Fine," Jarlaxle sighed. Artemis was so plain! Sometimes Jarlaxle thought the human was the most interesting thing he owned, but other times (like right now), Jarlaxle thought that his ruby thumb ring ranked a lot higher.

* * *

"We should take Secomber Trail to Red Larch. That way we can avoid Waterdeep," Jarlaxle suggested. He looked up from the map, tracing a finger along his proposed path.

"What's wrong with Waterdeep?" Entreri asked. "That road is a far better one. That trail will be a mud bath."

Jarlaxle paused, confused. "Why would someone bathe in mud?" He thought about it for a moment. "Is this another of those strange human festivals? Like the one in Lundeth with the hundreds of naked men rolling in fish?" he asked warily. They had been quite corpulent men. Lundeth women appreciated a bit of meat on a body.

"It's an expression," Entreri responded sharply, blocking out the memories. "The rain will make the trail very muddy. Because there will be lots of rain. Because it is the middle of Eleasis." He took a deep, calming breath. "The main trade road is cobbled; there'd be much less mud."

"The coin said we should go to Silverymoon. We can't go to Waterdeep. That would be cheating," Jarlaxle told him.

Entreri stared at the drow. Thirteen, no, fourteen… maybe sixteen years, and he still didn't understand Jarlaxle. "It's not cheating because we wouldn't stay in Waterdeep. It would be a stop on the way to Silverymoon, not a destination."

"But we never stay anywhere, so every time we stop in a city it counts as a destination." Jarlaxle paused and watched Artemis. The human was looking a little lost. "Silverymoon has to be our next stop. Otherwise we'd be disobeying the coin."

"But your planned route takes us through Secomber, Red Larch, Triboar, and Everlund."

"I was thinking we would walk around them," Jarlaxle said, frowning at the map. Rules were hard.

"Fine." Entreri gave up. "But we're in for a wet couple of months."

As if to prove his point, a smattering of rain began to fall on the grassy hillside. The hill rose out of the thick swamp that covered the black dragon's lair, the only dry land for miles. They had settled on it to plan their route, as neither was eager to slog through the thick marshland just yet.

"I suppose we ought to get going," Jarlaxle said gloomily. It was a deep marsh. Full of leeches and mosquitoes.

Entreri kicked at the raft they'd built on the way there. It groaned warningly, reminding him that Jarlaxle was as talentless as himself in carpentry. "Yes," he agreed, without any enthusiasm. He dropped their packs on the raft and watched warily as it shivered and dipped under the weight. Once it settled he pushed it into the marsh and slogged in beside it. The water rose up to his neck almost immediately. Not for the first time he cursed his lack of height. Though at least he was taller than Jarlaxle, he thought happily, watching the drow lift his chin to keep it out of the water. Then he reached out and pinched the thick black leech off Jarlaxle's neck and threw it up on the hill.

Jarlaxle let out the breath he'd held when Entreri had reached for his throat and sighed. "I hate swamps," he murmured, turning the raft north and pushing off into scum filled waters.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Entreri watched idly as Jarlaxle changed his mud soaked clothes for clean ones he pulled from yet another bag of holding. The clothes were quickly growing damp in the misty rain, but were still immeasurably better than the swamp tainted ones they'd worn for the last week. The hat was waiting on a thorough scrubbing, drooping sadly under the greenish layer of swamp scum that had mysteriously attacked it earlier. The drow put his dirty clothes next to Entreri's in the nearby stream and dropped a rock on them. They'd leave them in overnight to get the swamp smell out. It was their preferred method of doing laundry.

Jarlaxle settled beside Entreri and curled up into his oversized rain cloak. There wasn't enough rain for it to truly be necessary, but seven days in a swamp lowered Jarlaxle's tolerance for being wet.

The pitifully small fire sputtered weakly in the mist, smoking madly. Every once in a while a dribble of fat would slide from the roasting skewers of dragon heart and bear steak, sending a spitting burst of flame into the mist from which it would meekly retreat.

"So…" Jarlaxle said slowly, watching the flames.

Entreri waited patiently for Jarlaxle to gather his thoughts. In the mean time, he turned the skewers so they would cook evenly.

"What exciting thing would you like to happen?" he asked, referencing an almost forgotten conversation from days ago.

Entreri considered carefully. Jarlaxle was frighteningly literal when fulfilling a request. And when he wasn't, fate was. "Perhaps," he pulled the skewers off the fire and handed one to Jarlaxle, "Something we haven't done before." He blew on his meat-on-a-stick and gnawed off a slice of bear.

"It'll have to be something heroic," Jarlaxle considered, waving his skewer to cool it. "We've done everything else, I think."

"Why heroic?" Entreri asked. "It's not as if we've ever done anything truly appalling, either," Entreri pointed out, "The worst we've done is killing things so that we could take their money."

"I thought that was supposed to be evil?" Jarlaxle asked, frowning. "Was I mistaken?"

"Our motivation may be greed but our actions would generally be considered good," Entreri explained, "People don't care too much about the why. Most of them are peasants, merchants or people who could otherwise benefit from our killing monsters." He bit off a piece of dragon and chewed thoughtfully. "They figure that they'd never see a dragon's treasure while it lives, but once we've killed the thing and taken its gold, we'll probably spend most of it in a tavern or some such. Then they'd end up with the hitherto unavailable dragon's treasure."

Jarlaxle blinked in surprise. He'd always imagined that killing solely for profit was considered at least somewhat wrong. Then he was struck by another realisation. "Do they have the faintest clue how much money is in a dragon's lair? Much less how much we've taken from everything else over the years?"

"No." Entreri looked at Jarlaxle and wondered how he couldn't have figured this out by now. "The average person around here has never even seen a gold coin."

"But still!" Jarlaxle exclaimed, "If we spent everything we've gotten in a tavern we'd be drunk and laid for the next two hundred years!" He paused and considered. "And everyone else in the tavern would be too."

"It's not such an unreasonable proposal. You've seen those bands of men in cheap armour strutting down to the taverns. Those are the usual types who go out to kill and loot. They come back to their home village after their first big kill and throw their money around and act the fool until that money is gone, then they have to go back out and come back with even more to save face."

Jarlaxle nibbled on a bit of bear. "They don't kill dragons, do they?"

"No. They mostly kill goblins, I think," Entreri responded uncertainly. "Maybe the occasional troll?" He waited for Jarlaxle to respond, but the drow seemed lost in his thoughts. "So, appalling or heroic?" he asked, drawing the conversation back to the original topic.

"What would qualify as truly appalling?" Jarlaxle wondered. "Selling slaves?"

"Depends on where you are," Entreri answered absently, chewing off a piece of charred bear. They'd never sold slaves before. Primarily because live merchandise was difficult to catch, transport, keep alive and sell with only two people. "Maybe if we were to burn down a village or two and kill all their children."

"But how would we profit from that?" Jarlaxle asked. "Villages are poor. And killing children would be like, what is the phrase… herding cats?" he waited for Entreri's nod. "They'd run all over the place and hide and such. There are only two of us."

"True." Entreri finished his skewer of meat. "Why don't you come up with something?" He threw the stick into the fire.

"We could torture some elvish children and leave their corpses on pikes or something." Jarlaxle suggested. It was classical drow.

"We don't have enough pikes," Entreri said, "Do we?"

"And what would be the point?" Jarlaxle frowned, considering the present conundrum, "Profitable evil schemes involving only two people are difficult."

"Maybe you were right about the heroic thing. We could give all our money to charities," Entreri teased.

Jarlaxle ran a hand down his belt to ensure that all his bags of holding were there and reached over to stroke his pack. All bags accounted for, he glared at the assassin. "Or we could adopt an orphan or two."

"We could," Entreri agreed, "but we would most likely kill them in short order. Alternately, we could open a reform school for drow."

Jarlaxle laughed. "We could teach them skills like 'Do'Urden impersonation' and 'being Lloth bait.'" He finished off his shish kabob. "Better yet, we could save some town from a horde of orcs and become their patron saints."

"And, while we're at it, demand a ruinous tithe from them." Entreri grinned back at the drow. "We may as well face it. Neither of us is cut out for heroics."

"Whatever shall we do?" Jarlaxle threw up his hands dramatically.

"Go to Silverymoon. Spread rumours about Do'Urden. We will find something, we always do."

"What kind of rumours?" Jarlaxle asked, intrigued by the thought.

"I was thinking of telling people that he was a famous singer and dancer in Menzoberranzan. Awkward for him, but easily passed off as a case of mistaken identity for us," Entreri said casually, tossing an acorn into the fire to hear it crack.

"Or tell the world his true age," Jarlaxle offered.

"Hmmm?" Entreri looked at the drow. "Is he old?"

"No, he's actually rather young. About seventy-five, to tell the truth." Jarlaxle caught Entreri's doubtful look. "That is around twelve to fifteen in your human years, I believe."

Entreri blinked, suddenly slightly embarrassed at having stalked a pre-teen drow. "Isn't he involved with the red-headed woman? Catti-Brie?"

"Yes, she was rather fixated on him," Jarlaxle said. He sighed pensively. "I suppose I was too old for her."

* * *

The rushing waters of Delimbiyr crashed against its banks and roiled in furious protest where the waters of Unicorns' Run joined it. The rivers joining created a triangular field of rapids, curtained by a constant mist of white water spraying up over razor sharp rocks. To either side the river ran deep and quick, coursing steadily towards the Sword Coast. The only way across was a sturdy wooden bridge, leading the muddy track across the tail end of Unicorns' Run and straight onto the main street of Secomber.

The assassin and the drow leaned casually against the railing of the bridge. The guards at the end the bridge shuffled nervously, whispering among themselves. Drow look much the same to a surface dweller, but Jarlaxle couldn't pass as Drizzt with a haircut in the North, especially after the ballad, _Lavender Eyes_, became popular three years ago. These days, sometimes Drizzt couldn't pass as Drizzt.

"We could cross the bridge and walk around the town," Jarlaxle said.

"Or we could actually enter the town and stay in an inn tonight." Entreri scraped his boots on the wooden planks, trying to dislodge some of the mud stuck to them. "Sleep somewhere other than in mud, bathe in warm water for once, eat food we didn't cook, buy some more healing potions if they have them, have a drink, and sleep somewhere other than in mud."

Jarlaxle paused and watched Artemis for a moment. "You said the sleep in mud part twice," he eventually commented.

"No, I said that we could sleep somewhere other than in mud twice. It's an important distinction, as sleeping in mud is not a benefit of staying in an inn, which was the subject of my speech," Entreri said calmly, as his eyebrow twitch started acting up again.

Jarlaxle decided that they ought to spend the night in town, as Artemis was talking too much. It was a sure fire sign of his aggravation level. A happy Artemis was a quiet one. But first, he decided, Artemis needed to work a little harder so that he would appreciate the victory more. "But that would be cheating," he said, "The coin wouldn't like it."

"To the Nine Hells with the coin," Entreri cursed, glaring down at the marginally shorter drow. "I am sleeping in an actual room tonight. If you feel the need to follow the arbitrary rules you made up at the cost of your own comfort, I will meet you tomorrow on the west side of town." Entreri paused a moment to savour the pout on Jarlaxle's face. "I will also mock your stupidity relentlessly for at least a ten day." He strode towards the gates, surprising one of the nervous guards into dropping his spear.

Jarlaxle grinned cheerfully. Pushing Artemis was ever so much fun. "But what about sleeping under the stars?" he called out after Artemis. "Or the joys of nature?" He trotted after the assassin; making the other two guards retreat back a step and trip over their comrade's spear.

Artemis stopped a dozen feet back from the wavering spear tips of the guards. Jarlaxle fell into position beside him, inciting a quivering guard to squeak out, "Stop!"

Jarlaxle stared at them, making the one who dropped his spear shiver. A bird chirped from the side of the bridge, and the guard violently twitched.

"And…?" Jarlaxle asked after a minute of silence. The guards shifted and looked at each other, at a loss. He smiled widely at the guards, as if inviting them in on a joke. Unfortunately for them, there was no joke, merely a drow; which is something like a joke only crueller and generally not all that funny.

A slender half-elf slipped between the guards to stand before Jarlaxle. He frowned at the drow. "I have heard of your kind, drow. They call you the greatest liars, cheats and murderers in all of Faerûn."

"Why thank you!" said Jarlaxle with a broad smile , "I have heard of your kind as well! They call you the unnatural spawn of a slave and a worthless piece of flesh." His grin grew large enough to crinkle the outside of his eyes, making Artemis lean back warily.

The half-elf snarled and lunged forward, drawing a dagger in mid flight. The leader of the guards swung his spear, knocking the really very young half-elf out of his leap. "Fool!" the grizzled old human growled, "You can't be starting fights you can't win!"

"I could have won," the half-elf wheezed defensively.

"Aye, perhaps you could of," the old guard said, drawing an offended look from Jarlaxle, "But chances are much better that you would have died. Which would be worse than simply having been insulted." The guard cast a hard look at Jarlaxle.

"It looses something in the translation, I'll admit," Jarlaxle said, "But, in my defence, those were some awfully mean things he said about my race." He ignored the fact that he'd insulted humans, elves, and half-elves all in the same sentence.

The older guard glared at the drow. "As you will, drow."

"So, you going to let me in?" Jarlaxle asked, tilting his hat back. "The sun is ever so bright and we'd really like to get out of it for a while."

The guards looked up at the overcast sky. There weren't any storm clouds, but it certainly wasn't sunny.

"Liar!" the elf shouted.

"Useless spawn of diseased slime!" Jarlaxle shouted back, lips curling into a broad smile that bared the unusually pointy incisors common to drow.

Entreri sighed and decided that it was time for damage control. He stepped up beside the drow and murmured, just loud enough for Jarlaxle to hear, "My turn," he paused. "And sunny? Weak."

Jarlaxle frowned in false confusion. "But… Sun!" he pointed at a bright patch of cloud. He pasted an innocent expression on his face.

Entreri sighed again and shook his head. "Still, it is not sunny." He gave Jarlaxle a sad look. "Gentlemen," his voice turned warm with amusement, caring, and strained patience. "I apologize for Jarlaxle. He is still learning the subtle nuances of surface behaviour. He is a part of a new initiative by the church of Ilmater, Rehabilitation and Aid for Young Offenders From Lewd, Insane, Godless and Heathen Territories. RAY OF LIGHT for short. Jarlaxle is still very new to the surface, so your patience is much appreciated." Entreri smiled wearily at the guards, secretly rejoicing in their confusion.

Jarlaxle pouted like a child, "I had it handled! I know what to do, why do you keep interrupting me?" he whined.

"Because you have not convinced them that you are harmless and should be allowed inside their village. You may have convinced them that you are violent and possibly insane, but that was not the point of the exercise."

"I was trying to avoid a fight! They were going to attack just like those dumb elves last month."

Entreri pinched the bridge of his nose, using his hand to cover his grin. "Jarlaxle…" his voice trailed off in warning.

"Fine!" Jarlaxle shouted in true teenager fashion. "You're welcome," he grudgingly said to the guards.

Entreri whispered loud enough for the guards to hear, "The correct response is 'I'm sorry,' Jarlaxle."

Jarlaxle flushed a barely visible purple. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Jarlaxle is a bit weak with some of the social niceties," Entreri added gravely, "especially the ones that have no equivalent in the language of the drow." He looked at Jarlaxle with deeply faked sympathy.

* * *

"I can't believe that worked," Entreri mused as he ran a fine grit grindstone over Charon's Claw. At the end of each stroke the blade trembled, catching the candle light in the silver etchings that trailed down the black blade. Entreri ignored the soft little happy noises it made, determinedly not acknowledging that Charon's Claw really liked being rubbed right up near the hilt.

"What worked?" Jarlaxle asked, looking up from his hat. The copper coin band needed cleaning. He glanced over Artemis then hurriedly returned to polishing the tarnish away. Watching Artemis sharpen Charon's Claw was, frankly, a disturbing sight. The blade was just a trifle too intelligent for Jarlaxle's liking. Magical items should be stupid and pretty, that's what Jarlaxle had always said.

"Our ploy to get into the town," Entreri clarified, looking up at Jarlaxle. His eyebrow twitched, gaze flinching away from the sight of the hat. Not for the first time, he wondered if Jarlaxle was colorblind.

"It wasn't much of a ploy, really," Jarlaxle said, dipping his rag into a pot of silver polish. "more a ruse, or perhaps even a gambit. It lacked the planning needed to call it a ploy."

"You're probably right," Entreri acknowledged, "It did lack a certain something. Strange that they bought it, though." He put away the stone and pulled a pot of soft salamander wax and old piece of leather from his bag. Charon's Claw didn't need the rust or fire protection, but it appreciated the effort. It didn't even really need to be sharpened. The souls it ate kept its edges razor-sharp and nick free. They were the ultimate diet food for the evil sword on the go.

"Are you complaining?" Jarlaxle asked, raising a fine white eyebrow. He gestured at the cozy room they had secured. "After all, we did pick up a few healing potions, wash with warm water, eat food we didn't make, and we'll be able to sleep away from the mud tonight." Rain lashed against the wooden shutters, wind leaking through the cracks to tease the candle's flame. "And the rain," he added, leaning over to grab his mug of warm cider, the only drink being served at the bar tonight. He took a sip, savouring the flavour. It was very good, if disappointingly non-alcoholic, cider.

"No," Entreri admitted, wondering why he'd begun the conversation in the first place. Charon's Claw gasped softly, audible only to him, and he was reminded. He was distracting himself from his sword. "It could certainly be worse," Entreri paused, wondering how to continue the conversation. He wasn't very good at small talk. "You spoken to Kimmurial recently?"

"Ah… no." Jarlaxle looked up from his work, startled at the question. Artemis usually didn't start conversations, especially not twice in one night. And he and Kimmurial had never liked each other.

Light glinted off the hilt of Charon's Claw, the gleaming skeletons looking relaxed and in something of a post-coitus haze. Jarlaxle sighed. "You know, you should really just get a new sword. The glove will still work."

"The sword works fine," Entreri rationalized, "There's no reason to replace it." He twitched as the sword purred in appreciation.

"Except that it's an inanimate object that likes you way too much," Jarlaxle told Artemis. He paused, then continued thoughtfully, "I think it has a crush on you. You spoil it too much," he scolded, gesturing at the polish.

"It does not," Entreri said, ignoring the skeleton hand that had curled tenderly around his thumb.

"Of course it doesn't," Jarlaxle mumbled, rolling his eyes.

"And if you don't take care of your tools, they'll break," Entreri said defensively.

"It's a magical sword that eats the souls of those who touch it. Taking care of it means feeding it every couple of months, not polishing it with fire proofing wax that runs for fifty gold an ounce." Jarlaxle sighed and put down his rag, done for the night. The coins weren't exactly gleaming, but they weren't green anymore either. Maybe he should contact Kimmurial for a new one. Black and white stripe, perhaps. Jarlaxle tossed the hat onto the bed post.

"The next dragon could be a red," Entreri pointed out, sheathing Charon's Claw and putting it to the side with a sigh of relief. His dagger could wait until tomorrow.

"I doubt that would really be an issue," Jarlaxle said, pulling off his boots. "It hasn't been affected by acid, ice, or lightening. And if the sword were to get hit, you would probably be dead from being on fire."

"True enough," Entreri acknowledged easily, now that the sword was put away. "Do we have any possible replacements right now?" He took off his boots too and put them next to his dagger in his, 'to be cleaned,' pile. He settled onto the bed next to Jarlaxle, leaning uncomfortably into a mountain of cheerfully coloured pillows.

"Maybe," Jarlaxle considered carefully. "I think there was a sword with some serious ice-based powers. And it didn't feel too sentient. Check in the morning?"

Artemis nodded, staring fixedly at the ceiling. "Next time we enter a town…" he started awkwardly, not entirely certain how to say this.

"Come up with a story that allows us to get separate rooms?" Jarlaxle asked, looking over at the assassin lying in bed with him.

"Yes," Artemis agreed with relief.

"Oh good, because I didn't want to say anything…" Jarlaxle trailed off, pulling half a dozen pillows from behind his back and threw them on the ground.

"But this bed is really small?" Artemis finished, glancing over. He shifted back so there was more than half a foot between their faces.

"Yes," Jarlaxle agreed with relief.

Artemis pulled a cluster of pillows from behind his back and tossed them in front of the bed. Finally able to lie back without being smothered, he relaxed. "Nothing to be done," he said prosaically, "unless you want to sleep on the ground?"

"No more than you do, I wager," Jarlaxle replied.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

* * *

Artemis woke up slowly.

The sun had only barely risen, and the wind was whistling a merry tune on the shutters. The fire was out and the room had chilled from the night. At some point, Jarlaxle had draped himself across Entreri's chest like an oversized cat. The drow was an incorrigible cuddler in cold weather.

Entreri sighed and judged the likelihood of being able to escape Jarlaxle's clutches without waking him. _Slim, _he decided, _very slim. _

The wind howled louder and sent another wave of sleet crashing against the shutters. _On the other hand, _Entreri considered, _Jarlaxle really isn't doing any harm. _

Entreri wiggled down so that Jarlaxle covered more of him and pulled the covers up to his neck with his free hand. It really was too early to be getting up. The sun wouldn't visible through the clouds and it would be dark and muddy and cold. He might trip, he rationalized fuzzily. That decided, Artemis fell back asleep.

Jarlaxle had been awake for several hours now— or at least he thought he had — it being one of those days where the boundaries between sleep and waking were awfully nebulous. He'd definitely been asleep at one point, because Artemis had been telling him about this great new adventure where they'd go to Waterdeep and run a whore house where all the whores were angry elves who they'd kidnapped and enslaved. And Artemis didn't like Waterdeep. So that was just crazy and was probably a dream, Jarlaxle decided, taking the opportunity to shift far enough down that his head was completely covered by the thick quilt. He was bald, the air was cold, and Artemis was asleep. _It's not like he'll notice, _Jarlaxle rationalized, cuddling closer. The assassin was just so warm, he mused blearily, drifting backing into reverie while pondering the ironic turn of symbolism in the aforementioned thought.

It was several hours later when they both woke. The innkeeper had been up earlier and had apologized profusely for interrupting them. Entreri hadn't gotten it, but Jarlaxle had. He was amused. They had stirred enough to blink at her and readjust the covers, but had failed to rouse.

Artemis was the first to escape sleep's grasp. He felt significantly happier than he'd been yesterday, sleep in a dry bed with actual blankets being every bit the uplifting experience he'd anticipated. He pushed half-heartedly at Jarlaxle, but the drow only slid back an inch before squirming back into position. His initial plan foiled, Artemis turned to plan B. He shoved Jarlaxle off the bed. Then he cursed because Jarlaxle took all of the blankets with him.

"I see you've decided to wake up," Jarlaxle sniped, pouting. He pulled the covers closer around himself and stuck his tongue out at Artemis when he tried to pull one of the blankets back onto the bed.

Artemis forced back a snicker at the sight of Jarlaxle sulking on the floor. He was just looked so petulant, all skinny black limbs and red eyes wrapped in cheerful yellow and green quilts patterned with daisies. Vaguely demonic, of course, but also silly looking, which was a nice change from his usual aura of suave.

Jarlaxle read Artemis' quirked eyebrow and slightly flared nostrils correctly and knew that he was amused. Jarlaxle was amused too, actually, but it was so much more fun to pretend.

"Yes," Artemis answered. "We'd slept late enough, wouldn't you agree?" he said innocently, (actually blandly, because Artemis had never done innocent well. Not even when he had been innocent).

Jarlaxle shrugged. The quilt slid off of one of his shoulders at the movement, making him shiver in the cold air. He pulled it back up before responding. "It's still raining. Do you really want to leave so soon?" he paused for a moment, "Isn't it time for the harvest? Why so much rain?" He had read books about the surface, a long time before he'd come. The harvest in the northern reaches had always been described as wide blue skies with golden suns framed by fiery leaves. The leaves here were just a sickly shade of yellow and blue skies were distinctly scarce. He hadn't seen the sun in a long time either.

Entreri stared at him for a moment before responding. "I believe that the harvest hasn't started just yet. In a few ten days it'll dry up briefly, the harvest festival will take place, and then it will begin to snow," he explained, dredging up a few distant memories of something he thought he'd overheard once in a tavern somewhere. "This might be more rain than usual though." Entreri glanced at the closed shutters thoughtfully, considering the steady beat of rain against them. "It can't be healthy, all that water," he said, solemnly mulling the frightening lack of sunlight, sand, and heat.

"I always wonder how it got up there," Jarlaxle admitted. Artemis didn't look like he was going to invite him back up onto the bed. He shuffled back into the corner, dragging the blankets with him. He readjusted them to form a cocoon of soft warm blankets that Artemis didn't have. Soft, warm blankets that smelled slightly of mould, but they were his, and Artemis didn't have any. This pleased Jarlaxle, because he was still a little peeved over being pushed off the bed.

"How what got up where?" Entreri asked, confused. He stretched, subtly drawing attention to the fact that he had a nice big bed, all to himself. He made a significant little sigh (no real intent behind it, but still rather pointed).

"Water," Jarlaxle said. He gestured at the shutter covered windows, indicating the rain lashing at them. "It just seems weird that something so heavy could wind up in the sky with nothing to take it up or keep it there. Like there are invisible buckets up there or something." He gazed up through the spaces between the slats at the mottled grey sky. He imagined invisible buckets holding up the rain, but got stuck on why the rain fell in drops instead of bucketfuls. _Maybe tiny buckets, _he pondered, tucking his exposed toes into his blanket nest.

Entreri took a while to respond. He was almost certain that the rain wasn't held in invisible sky buckets, but now that Jarlaxle had suggested it, he found it a hard notion to resist. "If it was in buckets it would fall in big streams," he answered, rolling over to look at Jarlaxle more directly. Secretly, he envied Jarlaxle's ball of blankets. His toes were getting cold.

"Tiny buckets?" Jarlaxle offered his thoughts on the matter, a trifle freaked out by the way Artemis was reading his mind. _Maybe we do spend too much time together… _He gave Artemis a mistrustful look.

Entreri sighed. Jarlaxle was trying to use the puppy dog eyes to get back into the bed. But Entreri would be strong and resist. You have to teach them to self-soothe, he remembered someone saying once. He was somewhat aware that he was quoting drastically out of context, but did not care very much, as he was busy resisting. "Fuck this. You want to go to the bar?"

"And get more non-alcoholic apple cider?" Jarlaxle discarded his mistrustful look for a raised eyebrow.

Artemis broke out a genuine grin. "I told them not to serve you alcohol." He manfully resisted twittering like a little girl. "I told them you had a problem." He sat up and grabbed for his boots, wisely not turning his back on Jarlaxle. He gave them a few solid thwacks on the bed frame to knock off the mud, giving silent thanks for not having to clean up after himself. Thank the gods for innkeepers too scared to say anything to them.

"You _what?_" Jarlaxle squeaked before clearing his throat roughly. "And they _believed _you?" he half-shouted, indignant with rage. "What the hell kind of problem can't be solved with alcohol?"

"I haven't the slightest idea, but from the looks on their faces I'm pretty sure they came up with a few," Artemis said cheerfully. He pulled his weapons belt off the bed post and strapped it on, sliding out his dagger to check for cleanliness and also discourage Jarlaxle from pouncing. _Meh, clean enough. _ He decided, sliding it back into its sheath.

Jarlaxle snatched a pillow from beside the bed and threw it at Artemis' head. "Fuck you," he said, laughing. You didn't spend fifteen odd years teaching someone to have a sense of humour and then get pissed when they used it. Well, maybe a little pissed. He plotted revenge.

Artemis laughed happily, on the inside. Outside, his grin was the only indication of his amusement. "Come on, let's go," he said, the faintest hint of a gleeful chortle leaking into his voice. "Maybe I'll tell them that you were a good boy and therefore deserve a drink."

Jarlaxle chuckled. "I wouldn't," he advised, thinking of the innkeeper and the gossip that was doubtless making its was through the town.

Entreri looked back quizzically, amusement falling away as the sense that Jarlaxle laughing at a joke he didn't understand came forth. A common sensation, to be sure, but still kind of annoying.

Jarlaxle laughed at Artemis' lack of comprehension. He crawled from his pile of blankets and slipped on his boots. "Well? Aren't you coming?" he called back to Artemis, walking out the door, adjusting his hat.

* * *

The bar was small and dark, only a few dim candles and shuttered windows providing light. It was dominated by a massive fireplace that doubled as a warming shelf for food and cider, the bar built as an extension to the fireplace in equally sturdy brick and stone. The walls were dark with soot and the entire room was a dim and possibly claustrophobic hole in the wall. It smelled vaguely like wet sheep.

But the food wasn't cooked by Jarlaxle or Entreri and was therefore on par with a gourmet feast. Taste buds may die, but they will never enjoy the sensation of being shat on. And, of course, there was beer. And a list of drinks with strange names that the bartender only figured out after thirty minutes of peering at a an ancient menu that no one had ordered off of in at least the last ten years.

Jarlaxle and Entreri sat next to each other on rickety bar stools (Jarlaxle's wobbled). Their seats had obviously been upholstered by the same person who'd done the pillows in their room. The bright rainbow patterned covers were the only new things in the place, other than the large quilt hung in a place of honour behind the bar.

"That's a lovely blanket thing," Jarlaxle commented, blithely ignoring the way the bartender cringed whenever he spoke. The man paused in the midst of shaking the Long Arm of the Law (three shots of Shadowdale whiskey mixed into a pint of Suzale, garnished with a pickled egg) to stare, wide eyed at the drow. Jarlaxle pointed at the quilt.

"Ah…" the man seemed tongue tied, his hands shaking, "Yes?"

"Just saying," Jarlaxle said, shrugging and turning back to his Sloppy Seconds (a shot of Secomber Smuggler Rum, apple syrup, and a scoop of strawberry preserves shaken with ice).

"You like it?"

Jarlaxle glanced over at the speaker. She leaned on the bar beside him, gazing at the hanging. "Well, good use of colour," he eventually commented, "though the horns are an unrealistic shade of purple, in my opinion."

"I know they really should be grey, but the purple provided that extra pop. And I only had eight shades of grey and black. They were getting overused," she explained, twisting to face him, leathers creaking a bit, releasing a puff of skin warmed air scented by metal polish, leather soap, and iron.

"Your work?" Entreri asked, looking up from his beer. In what was likely a moment of drow-induced panic the bartender had thrown a couple of cherries on toothpicks into the pint. Entreri was using one of the toothpicks to hold back the rest while he drank, lest he lose an eye.

She nodded, tapping the bar insistently. The bartender fumbled and nearly dropped the Blue Balls Bitch (a shot of rum mixed into ice wine, and blueberries on a red toothpick) Jarlaxle had ordered for afters. He set it down carefully and poured her a mug of ale. His eye twitched as he pushed it forward, and then returned to peering at the cocktail list (he hadn't actually made any correctly yet). "Got stuck here over the summer and couldn't find anything else to do."

"How do you get stuck in a town in the summer?" Entreri asked, straining his rarely used small talk skills. He discreetly spit a cherry pit into his mug.

"Gabby broke her leg when she fell off Argo, my horse," she paused, sucking back her ale like a dwarf at an open bar. "Again."

Jarlaxle gave her an understanding look. "Your servant?"

"No, just my friend," the woman said flatly. Her lips twitched, "Though I might mention the servant thing to her." She pulled her hair back and pinned it with a strip of leather and a silver pin. Possibly red dragon leather. "What's your story? Why'd you drop by a pissant little town like this one?" The bartender twitched, but otherwise didn't react. Actually, he'd been twitching a lot. He might not have even heard.

"It was in the way and Artemis was being bitchy about the rain," Jarlaxle explained, finishing with Sloppy Seconds and moving on to a Sweet Young Lady (more rum, simple syrup, and dash of ground fennel seed). "We're on our way to Silverymoon."

She sighed. "So were we. Festival of Songs or something like that. Gabby likes those kinds of things." The sharpened ring of silver strapped to her belt glinted in bemused sympathy. "But that's over now, happened last week. Why are you going?"

"The signs pointed to it?" Artemis muttered, speaking around another cherry he was denuding with his teeth.

"That happens to you too?" she asked, sounding faintly surprised.

"Er… what?" Jarlaxle asked, well versed in not agreeing to anything when he didn't know what he was agreeing to. She was really tall, he noticed, sitting up a little straighter on his bar stool. Much taller than he was, he realised, calculating the extra half foot the stool gave him and the four inches she still loomed over him.

"Oh. Never mind," she shrugged off the question, looking a little disappointed. "So, adventurers?" she asked, gesturing at the two. Her finger tapped the bar a little desperately.

"Well, yes, I guess," Artemis replied, reflecting on what exactly to call what it was they did. Adventuring covered most of it. But con-artist, adventuring bounty hunter terrorists lacked a little something in the small talk department. "We just do whatever comes up, really."

"You know, I never asked," she said, finishing off another tankard. "You are Artemis and Jarlaxle, right?"

"Yes," Jarlaxle agreed. "I don't suppose that you're Zeena?" He finished his Thesis (shredded cabbage, beer and green tea leaves). He was getting near the end of the menu. He was fairly certain that the creator of the Thesis had been drunk or high. It was just as horrible as the name suggested.

"That's me," Zeena admitted freely. "I heard about the hell-hound thing," she gestured in a pattern that may have meant 'good work' or possibly 'I have relatives who are hell-hounds, you bastards.'

"Not as dangerous as that bard made it sound," Jarlaxle waved it off, wobbling a little.

"I didn't know that you quilted," Entreri commented, tapping the bottom of his mug to dislodge the last of the cherries from the bottom. He liked cherries.

"I have many talents." Her eyebrow arched, accentuating her point. She pulled up a stool, giving the startlingly accurate portrayal of a human heart an affectionate pat. "So, where you been? Haven't heard head or tail of you in over a year."

"Oh you know," Jarlaxle said, pulling roots from his teeth, "Around." He paused, giving her a careful look. Satisfied, he continued, "We've been staying in the wilds and the boonies, I think they're called. Civilization was a bit dull. Always the same old story, you know?"

She nodded in agreement. "Oh noble stranger, save us from this monster, evil warlord, curse, uneasy spirit, dragon, tax collector whom the town drunk accidentally summoned when he forgot to throw salt over his shoulder last Thursday? Then they go and drag out the big eyed children, holding their little rag dolls looking all sad," she glowered into her mug then shoved it towards the bartender. To his credit, he managed to catch and refill it before she came over the counter and did it herself, but it was a close thing. "And then they send you away because you'd 'never be happy there'." She drank deeply, "I didn't even want to stay," Zeena said, sounding a little confused by the entire matter.

"The bastards," Jarlaxle agreed, sucking back on the Devil's Water (zzar, whiskey, vodka, and Calimportian 'Lion's Milk' Raki). "If it weren't for the sad eyed children…" he muttered darkly. "Wouldn't even be a problem if Art didn't get so freaked out over the idea." He swallowed another gulp. "Of the children getting hurt or something," he clarified.

"I do not," Entreri retorted automatically. "And my name is Artemis, not Art. Or Entreri, if you prefer," he muttered into his cup, the response repeated by long suffering rote. He signalled the bartender again. If Jarlaxle was going down this route again, he was going to need more cherries. And more beer. He wondered absently if there was such a thing as cherry beer or beer cherries. If so, he wanted some.

"Gabby makes me do it," Zeena said, frowning, "It's always, 'think of the children!' or 'Hero, remember?'" she used a ridiculously high pitched voice to represent Gabby. "I never wanted to be a hero," she confided to the other two adventurers. "I wanted to conquer the world and be an overlord, but things just kept coming up," she despaired into her tankard. "And now I wander around saving people who don't even say thank you!"

"I hear you," Jarlaxle nodded in agreement, gazing into the dregs of the Devil's Water. "It's always, 'Oh, you saved us! Wait, you're really a drow? Not a curse? Door is thata way.'" He pointed to the door of the tavern.

"Sometimes they give me pie," Entreri admitted, "And they tell me how brave I am for working with you." He smiled at his beer. "Once it was cherry pie," he told them wistfully.

"I never get pie," the other two protested simultaneously. They twitched and looked at each other suspiciously before deciding it was a coincidence.

Jarlaxle looked at Artemis, feeling betrayed. "You never shared?" he asked, gazing soulfully at his former friend.

"I like pie," Entreri replied, shrugging. He met Jarlaxle's eyes and hesitated. "It only happened a few times," he assured him, "And I thought about you the whole time."

"Oh, what a _consolation _prize," Jarlaxle muttered sarcastically, though mentally allowing that Art might not be a former friend quite yet so long as he brought Jarlaxle pie at some point in the near future.

"Do you think they give Gabby pie?" Zeena asked, the drink giving her a wide-eyed sincerity that would never otherwise appear on her face. "Has she been getting pie all these years and I just never knew?"

"Zeena?"

All three looked up at the stairs, Jarlaxle and Artemis in confusion and Zeena in apprehension.

"Yes?" Zeena called back, doing her best to not slur the words. "What is it?"

"Oh for the love of—" the voice sighed in exasperation, "Have you been drinking again?"

"No!" Zeena yelled up the stairs in vehement, lying, denial. Quickly she turned to the other two, "Look, would the two of you care to check out the crazy rumours I heard last week about some kind of giant flying thing about three miles up river?"

Entreri and Jarlaxle both shrugged agreement, muttering such fine sentiments as, "Yeah, sure," and, "Better than a knife to the eye, I suppose."

"I meant right now," Zeena spelled it out, glancing nervously towards the stairs. "It's—," she glanced at the door, judging the quality of light, "either dawn or dusk, and I can't think of a better time to go hunting things that may, or may not exist." Uneven thumping echoed from the stairwell, drawing a fearful look from Zeena.

Entreri and Jarlaxle looked at each other, subtly indicating with twitches of the mouth and eye that both were ambivalent to the idea.

"I'll buy you pie," Zeena promised recklessly, watching as a slender ankle and a giant tree trunk of a wooden leg brace came into view on the stairs.

"Well, that's okay then," Entreri decided, finishing his drink in a series of swigs.

"I guess that'll do it," Jarlaxle approved, sucking the Blue Balls Bitch in a series of long swallows, cumulating by chewing the blueberries off the toothpick. He made a complicated gesture with his empty hand, and palmed enough coin to cover their tabs for the next few days into the empty flute glass with the other. "Keep our room for another night, my good man," he told the bartender grandiosely, the bared toothpick jutting from his teeth like a teensy red sword. He dismounted the bar stool, nearly falling over when it wobbled unexpectedly. He recovered his balance, clutching at the quilted map of south eastern Faerun.

"Gabby, sweetheart, I've just come across news of a giant evil thing I simply must take care of with these heroic fellow adventures," Zeena spoke rapidly, tilting a bit as she rushed toward the door, giving the petite blonde at the third-to-bottom stair a hasty wave good-bye.

Entreri slid his tankard back across the bar, carefully easing off the barstool. He smiled vaguely at the bartender, "We have to go now," he explained, straightening the quilted reproduction of _Red Dragon with Bowl of Fruit_.

And just like that, three adventurers embarked on an adventure of great importance.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

* * *

"Where were we going again?" Entreri asked Zeena lazily, passing the skin of wine Jarlaxle had pulled out of one of the bags.

"Here," Zeena gestured at the grassy knoll were they'd come to rest. It overlooked the clear waters of Unicorn's Run, bordered trees with long drooping branches that dipped into the rushing waters. Thick emerald green grass grew like yeti fur, coating the slope down to the river's edge where the water had cut into the bank, forming a six foot drop into the water. Weak sunlight shone through hazy grey clouds (it turned out that it was late afternoon rather than dusk) glinting off the water that coated the grass and trees. "Some punk-ass half-breed said he was here and he saw something. Something _evil,_" she drew out the word evil, rolling it on her tongue like sweet candy. "I figure we wait out the night, go back to town, mock the hell out of him, and then do something… else," she finished fuzzily as her speech outstripped her thoughts. She took a sip of wine to clear her mind.

Jarlaxle giggled softly, hand thrown over his eyes. The grass was ever so soft. Soaking wet, but soft and smelling so nice. "_Eeeeevil,_" he mocked, waving his hand in the air to signal that he'd like his wine back now, thank you very much. Zeena drank again before she passed it. "The little prick at the front gates?" he wondered idly, squeezing the skin so it squirted out into his mouth. He brushed the trickle that trailed down his cheek. He missed, so he did it again. "Probably heard a twig crack behind him and ran away."

"Saw a bird and called it a dragon," Entreri contributed, snagging the wineskin from Jarlaxle's loose grasp. The thin beam of sunlight fell victim to a drifting cloud. He shivered a bit, sending the grass that loomed over him swaying, the precariously perched water droplets dripping on him.

"Saw a kitten and called it a griffin," Zeena drawled, sprawling loosely in the thick ferns and moss that grew on the edge of the meadow. The lacy ferns glimmered silver as the rain drops caught in their webs captured the dim light. She wondered whether the pattern would be better expressed through quilting or embroidery. Perhaps a nice doily.

"Elves, chronic over-reactors," Jarlaxle proclaimed, taking back the wineskin from Artemis, "They lack all…all sense of—," he paused, forgetting where he'd been taking that sentence.

"Practicality?" Zeena suggested, trying to fill the blank.

"Judgment?" Artemis guessed.

"Well yes, but no." Jarlaxle frowned a little, confused. "What was I gonna say there?" he wondered out loud, passing the wine to Zeena.

"Maybe understanding of the complex moral dialogue that is inherent to modern life?" Artemis proposed contemplatively, letting his head loll to the side so he could look at Jarlaxle through the wet grass.

Jarlaxle nodded slowly. "You know, that jus' might be it," he said, admiring the particulars of the statement.

"Little fuckers are all black and white. No grey, not even if it's the right colour for th' job," Zeena agreed, "Why, this one time way back in… can't 'member when, an entire crew of them pitched a hissy fit 'cause I burned down a section of their super-special forest thing. They don't want their forest burned; they should keep it free of trolls. Honestly," she finished with a sharp nod that made her head spin. It felt interesting, so she did it again. The ferns swayed gently in the breeze, making her dizzy. Zeena closed her eyes to them.

"It's like… it's like trying to save rotten food because it's still good...only make you a lil' sick," Artemis stumbled through the words, tongue feeling unpleasantly thick. "Oh fuck," he muttered, scrambling to his feet. "I'll be back," Artemis promised with a half-hearted wave as he wandered off in search of a place to puke.

Zeena and Jarlaxle lay still, eyes closed in self defence. They could hear Artemis stumbling around in the thick undergrowth, cursing occasionally. Eventually the stumbling stopped and they heard a dull thump, followed by wet gagging. Then silence.

Eventually, after a minute or two, Jarlaxle opened his eyes and looked around for Artemis as best he could without really moving. Nothing in his range of sight. He carefully levered himself to his elbows and tried again.

"He still out there?" Zeena asked, arm thrown over her eyes to protect them from the light. Her other arm cradled the empty wineskin tenderly.

Jarlaxle looked over at her and instantly regretted the sudden movement.

The world spun in a dizzying spiral of grey and green, his eyes over-compensating for every movement, vision stuttering and slipping like ice. He rolled onto his side and the sky and ground twisted like angry serpents, punishing him for the action. His stomach rebelled, sending up most of the drink from the last few hours in a single heave. Jarlaxle wiped his mouth with his wrist and eased away from the no longer sweet-scented grass. Really, he felt much better now.

"Jarlaxle?" Zeena's voice rasped out, her arm slipping away from her eyes. "He there?" A sense of unease cut through the first layer of intoxication, as she noticed the slow deadening of sound. The grey sky had dropped to earth, the river lifting a sudden fog.

Jarlaxle sat up, blessing the sudden loss of nausea. He stared into the sparse forest, eyes tracking slowly, still jittering. The fog impaired his vision nearly as much as the drink, billowing like gauzy curtains to draw his eye. "Nothing. I see nothing." He staggered to his feet, closely followed by Zeena. "Art?" he called into the mist, finding his balance enough to walk toward where he'd last heard Artemis. Jarlaxle's fingers pulled nervously at a silver charm on his bracelet, twisting the delicate filigree animal Artemis had called an elephant.

"Does he disappear often?" Zeena asked, unhooking the silver ring from her belt. At her touch it hummed audibly, glowing white for a second then fading. She stroked it gently, tracing the arcane lettering that lined the inner handle.

"No," Jarlaxle said, voice tight with anxiety that he only felt because of the last four hours of steady drinking, otherwise, there definately would have been no such emotion. "He usually sticks around like a sticky thing— glue, yeah, glue," he told her, pulling a dagger from his wrist bracers. "He's always around somewhere, just gotta find where," Jarlaxle rambled, swaying gracefully (and precariously) as he mapped out the area by pacing.

In the distance, a dull hissing echoed. The fog deadened the noise, turning the brittle rattle into a sibilant undertone. _My babies, my babies! _ It whispered, _my babies, my babies._

Jarlaxle's blood ran cold. Unthinking (the drink again, of course) he broke into an ungainly run, his perception of the bucking ground off enough to put serious holes in the myth of elven grace.

"What in the nine hells?" Zeena slurred at Jarlaxle's retreating back and then paused to take a cautious look behind her. Seeing nothing, she broke into an equally stumbling run, cursing the many, many drinks she'd had. They sloshed merrily in her stomach, pitching and rolling like an unkind sea. She rapidly caught up with Jarlaxle after he tripped into a small gorge, falling into a deep puddle. Zeena reached down and offered him a hand out, asking, "The fuck?"

"It's Draconic," Jarlaxle whispered, eyeing the grey fog that surrounded them. "The voice is speaking in Draconic."

Zeena felt another burst of adrenaline, cutting through part of the alcoholic haze. She tilted her head, listening. "You're running towards it?" she enquired, a bit surprised.

Jarlaxle's glare was defensive. "No— nobody gets to eat my stuff."

Zeena paused, wondering if Jarlaxle actually owned Entreri, or if Entreri had something of his. Then she wondered if it was a more metaphorical kind of 'own.' She shook the distracting thoughts away. "Let's go."

* * *

Entreri leaned heavily against the tree. At least his head felt a little better. Less like a blowfish. He risked a look down. Hopefully, those were cherries. He spat to rid himself of the taste and wound up repeating the entire scene. _Probably the cherries, _he thought, pushing away from his supporting tree, giving its red-splattered white bark an apologetic pat.

Entreri wandered off in the direction he thought Jarlaxle was. It was getting kind of foggy through, and he really wasn't sure if he was going uphill or down. Definitely a hill, though.

The trees gave way to a circular meadow that sunk down in the centre, where it filled with fog. A lightning-struck tree jutted from the edge, tilting madly to the side. Entreri frowned in confusion. He didn't remember this. Then again, he didn't remember much. There had been a river of something.

He stumbled through the centre. About halfway through, his foot crunched into something, dropping into a wet, warm cavern, thick liquid grabbing at his boot. He flailed a bit, slowly tipping over as his balance fled to parts unknown. Entreri landed, hands landing in similar traps of encased goo. Something slithered in the trees. Entreri tried to get up, but wound up tipping to his side onto more of the head-sized spheres which crunched under his weight before leaking liquid all over his cloak. Once on the ground, he could see that they were eggs. Really large eggs. In the trees, something bellowed.

He lurched to his feet, balance granted by a rush of fear. _That sounds big, angry, and close, _he thought nervously,_ Like, ten feet away close. And, holy shit, there're two of them. _Entreri swayed dangerously, but kept his balance. He drew Charon's Claw (its skeletons tisked at his inebriation and tried to take over again. Entreri refused with the strength granted by really bad memories of the mornings after). The sword shot a spear of useless ash from its tip, which floated uneasily above the carpet of fog.

The creature charged, sending billowing mist up before it. Its long neck snapped out, trying to seize Entreri. He dodged into another egg. It snapped its teeth into his cloak, ripping it in half. Entreri clumsily pulled the rest of the cloak off as the magic in it rebelled against being broken. The mottled grey beast shook its head, trying to dislodge to the fabric, but the cloak was tightly stuck to the hundreds of needle-like teeth. Boiling red sparks rose from the two halves of the cloak, hissing where they met the air. Entreri watched with drunken fascination as the mouth of the creature melted. Beside him, the other half of the cloak baked an enormous omelette.

The monster shrieked in pain, drawing an answering cry from behind Entreri. He spun, tripping away from the gapping jaws of another, larger beast. It reared back, hissing violently. The bat-like wings flared back and its long tail whipped up, the sharp barb at the tip rattling. Then a violently wobbling silver circle rebounded off a tree and landed dead centre between the beast's black eyes. Its wedge-shaped head rolled like a charmed snake's and it blinked, dazed by the metal ring embedded in its forehead.

Entreri took the opportunity to try and flee, stumbling out of the half-baked egg swamp, but he tripped and shallowly sliced the monster's chest with his blade. It recoiled, driving the blackened spear of a tree-trunk into its back, running it through.

Zeena and Jarlaxle ran out from the trees, coated in mud and panting. They stumbled to a stop, taking in the death throes of the impaled creature and its melted mate. A breeze whisked the fog away, revealing the giant omelette.

Zeena leaned against a nearby tree, her dusky complexion waxy and slightly green. She held up three fingers, indicating that she would be needing a moment or three and possibly a new liver.

Jarlaxle grimaced as the world staggered to a stop a little to the right of where it should have been. "When we tell this story at the pub tonight, let's make it sound a trifle more heroic, shall we?" To his left, Zeena threw up on the charred eggs.


	5. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"And that's how we heroically defeated the Wyverns with many magical spells," Jarlaxle told the townsfolk, gesturing at the two, slightly mangled, heads. "And destroyed their nest," he added as an afterthought. Most of the tavern broke out into cheers. Several of the more matronly women were dewy eyed, news of Entreri's ruse to get them into town having spread. One stout blonde had actually hugged Jarlaxle and called him a brave little thing. Then she had let him go so she could go bake him a pie.

Behind Jarlaxle's crowd of onlookers, Entreri and Zeena sat on benches, drinking cider and wincing whenever Jarlaxle spoke too loudly. Gabby was sitting in the corner to keep an eye on Zeena. She had her lecturing face on, but luckily had decided the sermon could wait for when she and Zeena were alone.

"So, your friend going to be healed soon?" Entreri asked Zeena, feeling awkwardly out of place in a group of people who kept reaching out to give him a pat on the back (every time he was convinced that they were trying to stab him).

"Maybe," Zeena muttered, shrugging. She cast a discrete look through lowered lashes to see if Gabby was listening. Satisfied that she was safe, Zeena continued. "She's still a bit whiny, but I'm going to carry her out of here if I have to. I've crocheted, embroidered and quilted enough to equip the entire damn inn. If I have to take up knitting I think I'll just go insane." She stared gloomily at her untouched piece of pie. It looked so good, but her stomach was warning her that the pastry would be a very bad idea. Jarlaxle and Entreri had already finished theirs and gone back for seconds.

"We're leaving tomorrow, I think," Artemis said, a trifle apologetically. "But really nice work with the quilting," he added, spurred to an uncharacteristic complement by the desperate boredom in her eyes. "I like the dragon quilt," he told her.

"Do you want it?" Zeena asked him, a little flattered, "I hung them up so I could see them. They don't belong to the inn. The innkeeper didn't really like them anyway," she added.

"Sure. Jarlaxle really liked it too," he confided to her (he was, possibly, a tiny bit drunk still). "And I haven't found something to give him for midwinter yet," he added, remembering. Jarlaxle had been so delighted by the idea of a holiday for giving gifts; Artemis usually tried to get him something interesting. Jarlaxle always gave Entreri a dozen gifts or more, so Artemis felt like he should make an effort.

"Then I'll take it down and give it to you tonight," Zeena decided. She squinted at Entreri, blocking out the majority of the evil light. "Think we'll see each other again?" she asked pensively. The last day had been the most fun she'd had since Gabby broke her leg.

"Yeah, maybe," Entreri responded, knowing that they probably wouldn't. He spied Jarlaxle making his exit, heading towards their table. "I think we're going to bed soon," he told her regretfully. It had been nice, meeting another adventurer who didn't aspire to sainthood. "Early morning, you know?"

"I'll leave the quilt by your door. Just be sure to get up before him," she nodded at Jarlaxle.

"Thanks." Entreri rose and walked up the stairs, listening to an eagerly chattering Jarlaxle.

And just like that, the adventure was over.

**The End.**

Until I get drunk again and begin a sequel in another moment of inebriated inspiration. W00T.

Incidentally, did anyone notice that this was a crossover with Xena? Zeena=Xena. I thought it was pretty obvious, but no one said anything.


End file.
